


Debugging

by methaemoglobinemia (crimsonherbarium)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Body Horror, Bugs & Insects, Crack Treated Seriously, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hank Anderson & Connor Parent-Child Relationship, Hank Anderson and Connor Live Together, Moths, POV Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Post-Canon, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 00:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15763050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonherbarium/pseuds/methaemoglobinemia
Summary: Connor gets bugged when he decides to adopt a pet. Hank is less than pleased.





	Debugging

**Author's Note:**

> Big thank you to [spiderstanspiderstan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderstanspiderstan/pseuds/spiderstanspiderstan) for betaing, as always! You should check out her Detroit: Become Human fics [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1085970).

Connor's breath left no fog in the cool air as he walked through the darkened park. He'd taken to coming here at night to think after Hank had complained about him making too much noise walking around the house at odd hours. It was peaceful, and the view of the river was nice.

He was on the way back to the house when something flitted by his temple, lightly brushing his skin. He turned sharply, scanning the environment for threats, but found nothing of note. Telling himself that it was probably just a leaf, he continued down the sidewalk in silence.

It happened again a moment later, and this time he could see a tan blur as the thing flew erratically by his face. It tapped his temple in the same spot again.

Connor stopped walking.

Slowly, he raised a hand up to his temple, and the creature settled on it. He brought it in front of his eyes and ran a scan, more for curiosity's sake than anything else.

 **Sync in progress...Sync done.  
** **Collecting data...**  
**Processing...**  
**Subject identified:** _Antheraea polyphemus Moth_.

Connor hummed to himself, tilting his head slightly as he examined the fist-sized insect. It was _cute_ , sitting on his fingertips calmly as if it were dazed. Its wings were painted in shades of tan and pink, with striking yellow marks that looked like eyes on the flank. It was fuzzy all over in a way that made him think of the bumblebees he'd once seen in Amanda's garden. Connor liked bees.

The moth gently fluttered its wings, remaining on his hand. Connor decided that he liked moths too.

He smiled and then spread his fingers, encouraging the insect to take flight, but it stayed put. He blew on it, but it was entirely unperturbed by his interference. "Alright," he said. "You're welcome to stay with me for a while, if that's what you really want."

Connor carefully moved the moth to his shoulder, where it sat in contentment for the remainder of his walk home. When he put his key in the front door, the moth flitted away. "Good luck!" Connor whispered quietly, as it disappeared into the night.

 

 

~~~~~~

Several days later, while getting dressed for work, Connor noticed something green wriggling around on the desk in his room. He crouched down to look at it, fascinated by the way it moved. It was like nothing he'd ever seen before—his program identified it as a caterpillar, but knowing where caterpillars came from or what they did had apparently not been important enough to investigative work for CyberLife to include that information in his programming.

Connor retrieved a jar from the kitchen and placed the caterpillar into it, resolving to do some research on it when he next had some free time. Retrieving his badge and sidearm, he rushed out to meet Hank at the car.

 

 

~~~~~~

Connor found several more caterpillars over the next few days, placing them in the jar with the first. He wasn't exactly certain what to _do_ with them. It seemed like it was too cold in Detroit to just put them outside. Besides, he’d gotten fond of them. They were fascinating to watch—he liked to drop bits of vegetables he'd stolen from the kitchen into the jar and watch them eat.

The first caterpillar had started to wrap itself in some sort of brown material. It was suspended from the lid of the jar, working fervently to finish its project. Connor had no idea what the wrapping was, or what it signified.

He watched in fascination as the caterpillar wound itself up in silk, tearing himself away with regret when Hank yelled from the living room that the game was starting. Connor was trying to learn about basketball, and Hank was doing his best to teach him the basics.

When he returned to his room a few hours later, the caterpillar was almost entirely wrapped in a fuzzy brown capsule. Connor furrowed his brow, LED blinking yellow as he watched its progress. Surely it wasn't going to encase itself entirely? Didn't caterpillars need to breathe? His mouth twisted in dismay.

It seemed like the caterpillar knew what it was doing, though, so he left it to its own devices and put himself in rest mode, sprawling out on top of the covers with his limbs hanging off the edge of the bed. Connor didn't _need_ to sleep, of course, but it was beneficial to run a diagnostic and self-repair program every now and then, and they worked better if he wasn't active.

Connor's eyes flicked open at 7:30AM, precisely. He sat up and stretched, blinking rapidly as the report from his diagnostic program flashed in front of his eyes. No major bugs or structural abnormalities reported. He smiled, glancing around his room, and froze when his eyes lit upon the caterpillar jar.

The caterpillars were all gone—or at least, they no longer existed as he'd known them. They had all been transformed in the night into fuzzy brown capsules. They didn't move. There was no sign of life at all from the jar.

Connor took it in his hands, examining it closely with concern and then distress. His caterpillars were dead. Was it his fault? Had he done something wrong? He must have.

He'd never had a pet of his own before, and he'd managed to kill it in just a few days.

He could tell that he was positively radiating guilt and sadness, and was grateful that Hank was the only other person in the house. To another android, it would have felt like Connor was screaming his feelings at them.

He sniffled and took the lid off the jar, gently stroking the fuzzy form that encased the original caterpillar with his fingers. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "You deserved better."

Connor was never going to scold Hank for overfeeding Sumo again. Sumo might have been overweight, but he was alive. That was more than Connor could say of his own attempt at pet ownership.

He collected himself and dressed for work, not wanting Hank to see him upset. If he did, he'd ask what was wrong, and the last thing Connor wanted to do was admit to what he'd done.

 

 

~~~~~~

The jar was still sitting on Connor's desk three days later. He couldn't bring himself to throw it away. He wanted to find a nice place to bury it, but he couldn't dig up the yard without raising suspicion.

He'd just arrived home from work, and was placing his badge and sidearm on the nightstand when he noticed something was out of place. In the darkened bedroom, he'd almost missed it—the big wrapping that contained his original caterpillar was torn open.

Connor examined it inquisitively, trying to reconstruct half a dozen possibilities that might have explained what happened. None of them quite fit, though. He probed the casing with his finger, noting with interest that it was hollow. Where had the caterpillar gone?

A flitting motion by the lamp caught his eye.

Connor went to investigate cautiously. Whatever he'd seen was inside the lampshade, casting a long shadow on the far wall. He stepped slowly, trying not to startle it. Peering down the top of the lamp, he registered the shape inside with confusion.

 _Antheraea polyphemus_. The same species of moth that had followed him home several days prior. This one was larger than the original, with bushier antennae, but it was definitely the same species.

"Oh," Connor said, looking from the moth to the jar and back. "Huh. Are you..."

Using the moth's form as a reference point, he examined the shredded fibers again and was finally able to produce a reconstruction that made sense.

"I thought you _died,_ " Connor said in wonder. "I'm glad that you didn't, though. I guess all we have to do is wait for your friends, now."

The moth flitted down onto the nightstand and flapped its wings lazily. Connor smiled. He hadn't messed up that badly after all. He'd never imagined he could be so happy to see an insect.

 

 

~~~~~~

Connor had eleven moths now. Although they all appeared quite similar to the casual eye, each had unique markings and coloration, and were easy for him to keep track of. They ranged in color from a deep cinnamon to the light tan of coffee with milk. Some had touches of pink, others orange. Some had blue eyespots, some yellow, and some a combination.

Connor thought they were all beautiful. They were fuzzy and gentle, and they didn't hurt anyone. He looked forward to seeing them when he came home from work in the evening. Lately, he'd taken to coming straight home from the precinct instead of accompanying Hank to Jimmy's Bar.

He'd told Hank it was because he'd gotten bored of sitting at the bar every night, given that he didn't need to eat or drink. That was a poor excuse, though. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy Hank's company, but he finally had something that was all his, and he was excited about it.

Dressed in a simple t-shirt and pajama pants, he sprawled out on the bed and turned off the light. The room was dimly awash with the blue glow of his LED—almost immediately, the moths flocked to him, circling lazily around his head.

Connor smiled in amusement, imagining how strange the scene might look to an observer. It would have made an interesting painting, the moths personifying his thoughts as they spiraled outward from his temple. He wanted to show the image to Markus the next time they spoke. Markus could make it into something beautiful.

Content, Connor closed his eyes and entered sleep mode, his mind blank except for the slow crawl of his detailed diagnostic.

 

 

~~~~~~

The moth situation had gotten out of control.

Connor hadn't meant for it to go this far, but one thing had led to another and his room was absolutely _full_ of moths. He had to step carefully to avoid crushing them as they crawled across the carpet. It was getting harder and harder to hide them from Hank, too. More than once, he'd had to rush to capture an errant moth that escaped his room when the door was opened before Hank could see it.

He didn't know how Hank felt about moths, but if his reaction to the pigeons in Rupert's apartment was any indication, the lieutenant was not fond of flying things. Connor was afraid that Hank would make him get rid of them if he found out.

At the same time, Connor felt like he was starting to go crazy. He could hear the flitting noise they made even when he wasn't in his room. It seemed to follow him everywhere. He dismissed it as damage caused by repetitive stimuli to his audio sensors—he wasn't exactly running within specifications anymore. None of the deviants were. They were in uncharted territory.

He did his best to push those concerns to the back of his mind. He was grateful the moths didn't seem to need to eat anything—the amount of vegetables he would have had to steal from the fridge would definitely have raised some suspicions with Hank.

Inconveniences aside, Connor loved his moths. He was more than happy just to watch them flutter around, occasionally holding one in the palm of his hand and stroking its fuzzy back with one finger.

 

 

~~~~~~

Connor was sitting on the couch with Hank, watching yet another basketball game as the lieutenant tried to impress the finer points of the sport onto him. Connor was interested, but only half paying attention to the screen. The flitting sound had gotten louder recently, and it was distracting.

"Connor, are you listening to me?" Hank sounded exasperated.

"Hmm?" Startled, Connor turned to look at Hank, one eyebrow raised.

"I asked if you'd picked a favorite team yet."

Connor hadn't, in fact—he wasn't sure what was supposed to help him make that choice. Apparently plain statistics weren't enough, and he didn't feel like he had enough of an identity of his own to pick a favorite sports team based on anything else.

He opened his mouth to reply, and felt the sudden horrible sensation of something crawling its way up his throat. Connor coughed violently, and a solitary moth flew out of his mouth. It fluttered erratically back and forth in the air between them.

The veins in Hank's forehead were bulging. "Connor?" he said very calmly, as if he were desperately trying to keep his composure.

Connor was faintly aware of his own horrified expression. "Yes, lieutenant?"

"What the fuck was that?"

He hesitated.

"Connor." Hank was staring directly into his eyes.

"It—it appears to be a moth?"

"Yeah, no shit. Where the hell did it come from?"

Connor hesitated again.

Hank groaned, burying his head in his hands. "Show me."

Connor mutely pointed down the hall at the door to his room. Hank rose with trepidation, making his way to the door and pausing for a moment with his hand on the knob before opening it.

"Jesus fucking christ! What the hell?" Hank slammed the door shut immediately. "What the fuck—goddamn—" He rounded on Connor. "What the fuck possessed you to fill your room up with _moths_?"

"I...thought they were neat?" If Connor was capable of blushing, his cheeks would have been burning with shame.

"No fuckin' way. Not in my house. They have to go. Now."

"They won't leave while it's dark outside. They like light."

Connor could practically _hear_ Hank grinding his teeth. "Okay, fine. But in the morning, they're gone. And if I see one more fucking bug in this house, I swear to god—"

Connor winced. "I'm sorry, Hank." He looked down at his hands, which we was nervously rubbing back and forth. "It was just nice...to have something that was mine."

Hank rubbed his temples in exasperation. "This android's gonna be the death of me," he muttered under his breath. He returned to the couch, sitting next to Connor. "Look, I get that you're trying to figure out your place in all this. We all are. But infesting the house with moths is not a healthy way to deal with it."

Connor sighed dejectedly. "I'm sorry, Hank."

"We gotta get you a hobby, Connor. A hobby that doesn't involve bugs."

"Okay," he said. "Do I really have to get rid of them?"

Hank groaned. "Yes, goddamnit. I was prepared for some weird shit when you moved in, but this is way over the line." Seeing Connor's crestfallen expression, Hank softened. "Hey—if you want a pet so bad, why don't we get you a fish or something?"

"I don't know..."

"Well, why don't you think about it and we'll talk about it later?"

Connor nodded. He opened his mouth to say something else, hiccuped, and spat out another, smaller moth. It landed wetly on the coffee table in front of him, opening and closing its slime-covered wings.

Hank stared at Connor in disgust. "Are...are there more of those things inside you?"

"I don't know?" Connor was beginning to panic, his LED flashing red. "I didn't know they were in there!" He blinked rapidly as he ran a fast-pass diagnostic, which turned up nothing. He could still hear the flitting noises, but he couldn't tell if they were coming from inside him or from his room down the hall.

"Great," Hank muttered. He stood and grabbed his coat. "Come on, we're taking you to the clinic."

 

 

~~~~~~

The _Life_ clinic was one of the better things that had come about after the revolution—a clinic catering exclusively to androids, built in the shell of what once had been a CyberLife store. Connor looked up at the enormous triangle engraved into the glass wall of the storefront nervously as he trailed behind Hank. He didn't like coming here. Coming here usually meant that he'd made a mistake and would have to spend the next few hours getting it painfully corrected.

Connor pressed his hand to the access panel, and the glass doors slid open with a quiet hiss. The interior was clean and modern, decorated in shades of arctic white and crystalline blue. Hank made a beeline for the front desk and exchanged a few words with the android receptionist, accepting a tablet from her before joining Connor in the waiting area.

"Here," Hank said, shoving the tablet at Connor. "You better fill this out."

Connor remained silent as he obediently entered his identifying information into the tablet—his serial number, last date of service, the results of his own detailed diagnostic. When he was done, he set it down beside him and stared blankly at the wall opposite him.

"I'm sorry, lieutenant," he said, shifting in his seat. "I didn't mean to inconvenience you."

"Look, Connor—I'm not trying to be rude, but can you keep your mouth shut?" Hank looked queasy. "I don't want to see any more of those fuckin' things flying out of it."

Connor nodded.

The uncomfortable silence between them was mercifully interrupted by a technician in scrubs. Her dark hair was tied back into a neat bun, and her LED blinked cheerfully as she spoke. "RK800 313-248-317-51?" She smiled. "We're ready for you."

Connor followed her in silence, apprehensive about what was to come. While the act of coughing up insects didn't raise quite the same level of revulsion in him as it did in Hank, he knew that filling himself with moths was probably contraindicated by his operations manual.  
With that added to that the fact that he wasn't certain how many had gotten into him or where they were, he was feeling anxious.

They arrived at a small white room with a low, flat table in the center. A large surgical light was mounted overhead, and the counter was loaded with trays of instruments and detailed diagnostic equipment.

"You can have a seat there." The technician gestured at the table. Connor complied, rubbing his hands together nervously. "May I?" she asked, holding up a cable and indicating a spot on the back of his neck. He nodded in assent. She connected it, and immediately a screen on the counter began to fill with lines of code.

"How do you prefer to be addressed?"

"My name is Connor."

"I'm Grace. It's nice to meet you, Connor." She smiled. "Dr. Bowman will be in shortly. Just try to relax, okay? I'll be right outside if you need me."

"Thank you." Connor attempted to smile back. He forced himself to take a deep breath as the door clicked shut behind her.

 

 

~~~~~~

Connor jumped when the door opened, startled by the sound. He'd been deep in thought. The red-haired woman who entered was almost as tall as him and dressed in a crisp white coat. He squinted beyond her glasses, managing to lock onto an eye for a positive ID.

 **Sync in progress...Sync Done.  
** Collecting Data...  
**Processing...**  
**Subject Identified:** _Diane Bowman, PhD_  
_CyberLife—Head of Research and Development (former), Life Clinic—Lead Engineer (current)_

"Hello, RK800," she said briskly, setting down a tablet on the counter and washing her hands in the sink. "It's been a while."

Connor wrinkled his brow. "Do we know each other?"

"I oversaw your design process." Drying her hands, she approached the diagnostic equipment on the counter and glanced over the code that was showing on the screen there. "So, what seems to be the problem? Your intake form said something about bugs, but I don't see anything wrong with your code."

"There isn't anything wrong with my code." He grimaced.

Bowman looked at him in confusion.

"I think it's easier if I just show you." Connor hesitated. "I'd like to apologize in advance for this." He opened his mouth and stuck his fingers down his throat, coughing and retching for several seconds before a horribly familiar feeling set in. He swept the back of his throat with his fingers and then removed them, holding out a thirium-stained moth for her to see.

Bowman blinked several times, staring at Connor like he'd grown a second head. "...Oh. Um." She took a deep breath and swallowed. "How did this happen?"

"I'd rather not talk about it," Connor said sheepishly.

She sighed. "Alright, RK800. I'll be right back and we'll get you fixed up. Would you mind lying on the table and deactivating your skin while I'm gone?"

Connor nodded. He removed his jacket and sweater after she'd left the room and left them, folded neatly, on the counter. He lay back on the table, looking up at the bright surgical light overhead as he deactivated his synthetic skin, revealing the panels of white and grey plastic that lay underneath.

Connor didn't like deactivating his skin. Some androids chose to go without it these days, but it made him feel exposed. He'd been designed to integrate with humans as seamlessly as possible. This open display of everything that lay underneath was directly counter to that design. He felt vulnerable.

It felt like an eternity before the door at last clicked open again. Dr. Bowman entered, closely followed by Grace, who was holding a large red biohazard bin and looking at him with interest. Bowman donned a pair of blue nitrile gloves and selected a pair of forceps from an instrument tray on the counter.

"Based on your symptoms it seems likely that the moths are confined to your thirium reservoir," she said, her tone clinical. "We're going to remove them, flush it with disinfectant, and you should be fine. Grace will be assisting me. Is that alright with you?"

"Yes."

Bowman pressed her fingertips gently along the bottom of Connor's breastbone, popping open a panel and exposing his internals. Connor stared resolutely at the bright light above him and tried to think about Sumo. He wished he could have brought the dog with him. Sumo would have been a good distraction.

Dr. Bowman was wrist-deep in his abdomen, occasionally pulling an insect out with the forceps and dropping it into the biohazard bin. She hummed softly as she worked. Connor glanced down and felt a pang of sadness, noting that most of the moths were already dead. He'd never intended to hurt anything. He screwed up his eyes, not wanting to see any more.

Eventually, Dr. Bowman dropped the forceps back onto the tray. Connor opened his eyes once more—her gloves were stained a much darker blue with thirium, and although it seemed that she was trying to keep a straight face, her expression was strained.

"Okay, RK800—I'm just going to flush your reservoir and then we'll be all done." She passed a length of thick plastic tubing into his abdomen and deftly connected it. Connor felt a hum and a rush of icy cold as disinfectant pumped into his stomach. He could taste it on his tongue as it roiled around inside him, bitter and sharp. He made the conscious effort to turn off his oral sensors, but not before they managed to identify the substance as methanol.

Connor grimaced, hoping that the worst of it would have evaporated by the time Bowman was finished. As far as chemicals went, he wasn't fond of methanol. It had a number of unpleasant associations for him, most of them maintenance-related.

Staring resolutely at the ceiling, he could hear a dripping sound as the disinfectant was drained out of him. It took everything he had not to breathe a sigh of relief as Bowman withdrew her fingers from his abdomen and closed the plating.

"Alright, I think I got them all," she said, throwing her soiled gloves into a nearby trash can. "Whatever happened to cause this—can you please try not to do it again?"

Connor nodded. "Can I..."

"Yes, of course—you can get dressed. I'll have Grace finish up your service summary, and then you can go."

"Thank you." Connor sat up, skin surging forward to recover his exposed plating. He ran a hand through his hair, relieved. He felt like himself again.

 

 

~~~~~~

Connor spent the better part of the next day trying to clear his room of the moths. He wore a surgical mask over his mouth, horrified by the thought that another might find its way into his internals. One debugging session had been enough for a lifetime.

Hank had offered to pick up some bug bombs, but Connor couldn't bring himself to harm the moths any more than he already had. He opted instead to shoo them out the open window by waving a newspaper at them. They weren't eager to leave their cozy shelter, but eventually he managed to get most of them outside. They fluttered lazily in the spring breeze, off to find some new place to rest during the day.

The last moth, one of the larger ones, flitted around Connor's head for a moment. He watched it, smiling as the golden evening sunlight highlighted all the magnificent colors in its wings. They really were beautiful. He was going to miss them.

The moth landed on his temple, a light touch against his LED, before taking flight and following the rest. He shut the window behind it and took a deep breath before turning to the task of sanitizing everything in his room. He'd do the rest of the house when he was finished—he felt he owed it to Hank as an apology.

Connor set the magazine down on his desk, pausing for a moment to watch the fish that was swimming in the small tank there. A dwarf gourami—its brilliant orange and aqua coloration striking, if not quite as pretty as the moths had been. It seemed relatively happy in its new home.

Hank had picked it up for him earlier in the morning—something new to occupy his attention. Connor was thankful that Hank cared enough about his attachment to his pets to provide a replacement, but part of him suspected that the lieutenant was just afraid he’d infest the house with cockroaches next.

All the same, he smiled. It was something beautiful, something familiar and yet _new_. Connor liked new experiences, but the familiarity was comforting. He’d had more than enough excitement for one week.

**Author's Note:**

> "Moths? In _my_ fuckin' android?"  
>  _It's more likely than you think._
> 
> Dr. Diane Bowman and the _Life_ clinic are the creation of spiderstanspiderstan, and are used here with her blessing.


End file.
